The Dead Flitterbird Sketch
by bookdragon01
Summary: Written based on a request for a ST version of the Dead Parrot Sketch. Chekhov is depressed to find that his recently purchased flitterbird is dead. His friends decide to help him get a refund...


**The Dead Flitterbird Sketch**

Summary: _Written to fulfill a request for a ST version of the Dead Parrot Sketch. Chekhov is depressed to find that his recently purchased flitterbird is dead. His friends decide to help him get a refund..._

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I make no profit from this and own neither Star Trek nor anything from Monty Python (besides a rather large video collection and a deep and abiding affection for both series).

* * *

Chekhov sat disconsolately in the station centrum staring at the sad little mass of bright feathers laying on the bottom of the cage beside him. The kid looked pathetic, and considering that a carefree day on the station was supposed to cheer him up after his first away mission had gone so seriously wrong, Kirk could feel his jaw tightening in anger at whoever or whatever had brought his navigator even further down.

Kirk placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Pavel, what's wrong?"

"I am a jinx," Chekhov looked up, despondency etched in place of his usually cheerful expression. "Zhe flitterbird - he vas sleeping vhen I bought him, and already he is dead."

The whirring sound of a medical scanner ran briefly and McCoy scowled. "You didn't kill this bird, Pavel. It's been dead for over a day."

Kirk examined the cage. "Look. You see those little pins on the perch? Some con artist tacked it's feet down to pass it off as a sleeping bird."

"Vell, at least I vas not the one killing it," Chekhov sighed. "I vill go back to the ship now. I vas a fool - all my extra credits spent on a dead bird."

"Oh, I don't _think_ so." One of the doctor's eyebrows was raised and almost twitching with anger. "Come on, kid. We're gonna get your money back."

.

Kirk and McCoy burst into the shop with Chekhov trailing a step behind. The shopkeeper took one look and turned his back, pretending to be completely absorbed in some important business on the far side of the counter.

"We're here to register a complaint," Kirk barked.

The shopkeeper kept his back turned, ignoring them on the well-known principle that unwanted customers could frequently be ignored into going away.

McCoy banged on the counter. "Hey, lady, we're talking to you!"

"What do you mean 'lady'?" The owner turned, revealing that his pony-tail had been somewhat misleading.

"Okay, then," McCoy cleared his throat looking at his name tag. "_Mr_. Ipswich, we've got a complaint."

Ipswich glanced at Chekhov, the cage and the two irate officers in front of him. He started to turn away again. "Sorry, I'm closing for lunch."

Kirk grabbed his sleeve. "Not until you've straightened out the little problem with this bird my friend here purchased from your shop."

"Oh yes, the, uh, the flitterbird." The shopkeeper gave them his best blank expression. "What's, uh... What's wrong with it?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with it, bub," McCoy snapped. "It's dead, that's what's wrong with it!"

"No, no, he's uh, ...he's resting." Ipswich countered.

McCoy glared. "Yeah? Well, I know _dead_ when I see it and I'm looking at it right now."

The doctor's glare left the impression that the bird might not be the only 'dead' he was looking at, causing the shopkeeper to blanch slightly. However, Ipswich swiftly recovered. On the world he came from, no self-respecting merchant would ever just return a sucker's money. He gave them his his best salesman's smile.

"No, no, he's not dead, he's resting! Remarkable bird, the flitter, isn't it, ay? Beautiful plumage!"

"The plumage is immaterial," Kirk stated flatly. "He's stone dead."

"No, no, no, no, no, no! He's resting!"

McCoy started to reach angrily across the counter, but Kirk caught him. "I'll handle this, Bones. Look, if the bird's resting, then I'll wake him up." He lifted the cage and shouted into it. "Hello-o-o-o Mister Flitterbird! I've got a cuttle fish for you if you wake up -"

Ipswich quickly tapped the cage. "There, he moved!"

"No he didn't," Chekhov objected. "Zhat vas you hitting zhe cage."

"I never!"

"Yes, you did." McCoy and Chekhov insisted in unison.

Ipswich straightened his smock, looking ruffled. "I never, never did anything..."

"Right." Kirk drummed his fingers on the counter and then hit the cage himself. "HELLO POLLY! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your 09:00 alarm call!" He pulled the bird out of the cage, thumped its head on the counter a couple times and then tossed it into the air and watched it plummet back to the counter. He raised his eyebrows at Ipswich. "Now_ that's_ what I call a dead bird."

"No," Ipswich huffed. "He's just... after all that, he's ...he's stunned."

"STUNNED?" Kirk shouted in frustration.

"Yeah," Ipswich crossed his arms defiantly. "You stunned him, just as he was waking up! Flitterbirds stun easily, Captain."

"You look here you filthy swindler," McCoy snarled. "I'm a doctor and that bird is definitely deceased and has been since well before my friend here purchased him not a half ago when you assured him that it was just sound asleep being exhausted from a long transport."

"No," Ipswich looked up a little nervously, searching for a reply. "He's ...he's, ah... probably pining for the fjords."

"PINING for the FJORDS?" McCoy exploded. "What kind of explanation is that?"

"Yeah," Kirk added. "And why did he fall flat on his back the moment Chekhov carried him up to the lounge?"

"The flitterbird prefers keeping on his back," Ipswich smiled smugly. "Remarkable bird, isn't it, Captain? Lovely plumage!"

Kirk shook a finger in the man's face. "Look, I took the liberty of examining that bird's perch, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on it in the first place was that it had been NAILED there."

"Well, of course it was nailed there!" Ipswich smiled as though it were the most patently obvious thing in the cosmos. "If I hadn't nailed that bird down, he would have muscled up to those bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and - VOOM! Feeweeweewee!" He made a flapping motion with his hands.

"VOOM?" Bones yelled. "Look, this bird wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through him! He's dead Ipswich!"

"No," Ipswich insisted, shaking his head as though saddened by ignorance of some customers. "He's pining."

For a moment it looked like McCoy's eyes might pop out of his head. Then he leaned over the counter, gripping the edges and glaring with the pointed intensity of a phaser beam. "He's not _pining_! He's _passed on_! This flitter is no more! He has ceased to be! He's expired and gone to meet his maker! He's a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed him to the perch he'd be pushing up the daisies! His metabolic processes are a matter for history! He's off the twig! He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the damn choir invisible! THIS IS AN EX-FLITTERBIRD!"

There was a pause as the doctor caught his breath and Ipswich stood in stunned but still stubborn silence considering how to reply.

At the shop entrance, Security Chief Giotto crossed his arms and restrained a sigh. He had entered in the midst of the doctor's rant, having responded to raised voices he'd recognized all the way down the corridor. McCoy and Kirk both yelling at someone carried a pretty high likelihood of him having to deal with the station chief and he'd be damned if he was going to wind up having to listen to Mr. Cleese tsk-ing at him over the behavior of his ship's senior officers. Now, having absorbed the situation, he formulated a more direct approach for ending it.

"Gentlemen, this is getting silly." The veteran officer advanced on the shopkeeper. "You will refund Mr. Chekhov's credits, or face a complaint of fraud to the business services division of this station. As I am certain you are aware, the minimum penalty for fraud involves loss of license and business privileges on this or any other Starfleet base for the next three standard years."

"Here now," Ipswich protested. "I've done nothing wrong."

"It's your word against three ranking 'fleet officers, one of whom is a CMO who can scientifically establish the bird's time of death." Giotto fixed him with a well-practiced don't-be-an-idiot stare. "And you can add to them a fourth, who, incidentally, has known this station's chief since basic training. Are we clear?"

"Yes," the shopkeeper replied sourly, handing Chekhov a receipt. "But you get this lot out of here or I'll be filing a complaint of my own."

"Very well," Giotto made an ushering motion toward the door. "Gentlemen, before this situation becomes any more preposterous, I suggest we move along."

* * *

_AN: Flitterbirds are mentioned in the DS9 episode _'Profit and Loss' _and so seemed an appropriate substitute for the classic parrot. _

_Yes, this is shameless crack. It was written because my 9-yr-old daughter has recently become a Monty Python fan (at least wrt the bits clean enough for us to let her see) and asked for a ST version of her favorite sketch. This is also the first time she's really collaborated on a story with me. I was having trouble figuring out how to end it and she suggested that Giotto should take the Sergeant Major's role of turning up to end a sketch by declaring 'Too Silly! Move along...'_

_Hope you liked it. Please r&r._


End file.
